Summary: While regularly petitioning the Vatican to make her the first living saint, fifteen-year-old Antonia Labella prays to assorted patron saints for everything from help with preparing the family's fig trees for a Rhode Island winter to getting her first kiss from the right boy.

ISBN-13: 978-0-374-36087-0

ISBN-10: 0-374-36087-1

[1. SaintsâFiction.Â Â 2. Italian AmericansâFiction.Â Â 3. Family lifeâRhode IslandâFiction.Â Â 4. Catholic schoolsâFiction.Â Â 5. SchoolsâFiction.Â Â 6. Conduct of lifeâFiction.Â Â 7. Rhode IslandâFiction.]Â Â I. Title.

PZ7.F8844 Pos 2008
[Fic]âdc22

2007033298

In memory of three special made-up saints in my life who've gone on to that great palace in the sky:

my academic mentor, Monsignor Stephen Happel, the Patron Saint of High Places

my grandmother, Amalia Goglia, the Patron Saint of Artichokes and People Who Say Yes When Mom and Dad Say No

and most especially my mother, Concetta Lucia Freitas, the
Real
Patron Saint of People Who Make Pasta

P
ART 1
The Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees

Vatican Committee on Sainthood
Vatican City
Rome, Italy

November 1

To Whom It May Concern (ideally the Pope if he's available):

I'm writing to inform you of a serious oversight in the area of patron saint specializations. As yet, there is no Patron Saint of Figs and Fig Trees. I mean, I know over there in Italy they practically grow wild and all because of the idyllic climate, but let me tell you, trying to keep fig trees alive through a Rhode Island winter requires divine intervention. Do you have any idea what we have to do when it starts to get cold? Not only do we have to prune them, we have to bury them! Let me be clear: come winter, I, that's me, Antonia, BURY our fig trees. Have you ever tried to bury a tree? It's not exactly an afternoon job. Of course, it's worth it when those yummy, succulent figs start bursting to life come springtime. (Yes, that's right: spring. It's miraculous really. Our figs, the LABELLA family figs, show up in springtime, not summer!) But anyway, I think it would really help Catholic fig growers all over the world and especially in Rhode Island if we had a Patron Saint of Figs, because, Lord knows, I'd pray to this saint. I
mean, if we can have a Patron Saint AGAINST CATERPILLARS (Caterpillars? What's so bad about caterpillars?), I don't think a saint specializing in figs is too much to ask.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Blessings,
Antonia Lucia Labella
Labella's Market of Federal Hill
33 Atwells Avenue
Providence, RI USA
[email protected]

P.S. Incidentally, if you are looking for someone to fill these particular shoes, that would be those of the new Patron Saint of Figs, I'd be delighted to take the job. In fact, I insist! I can be reached by e-mail, or you could always just come by the market. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that if you need to get in touch with me, I'm easy to reach. Hope to hear from you soon!

1
I P
RAY TO
S
T
. S
EBASTIAN
A
BOUT
G
YM
C
LASS AND
T
HANK
G
OD
I'
M
N
OT
N
AMED
A
FTER THE
P
ATRON
S
AINT OF
S
NAKEBITES

I gazed up at the familiar boy. A golden aura surrounds his beautiful, muscular body, arrows poking into him from every direction.

Poor saint, I thought to myself. I hope it doesn't hurt.

Sebastian's stare was piercing, as if he were looking right through me. As if his gaze were another arrow pointed my way.

I closed my eyes but the image stayed. It should. The picture of St. Sebastian had been hanging on the wall in our living room for as long as I could remember, right near the old-fashioned record player my mother listened to when she was dusting all the other saint statues and figurines, her daily tribute to the men and women who watch over us. Occasionally I'd come home from school and Mom would be belting out “That's Amore” or “Volare” in her just-off-the-boat Italian accent. I had to be careful not to bring anyone up to the apartment when I heard music
playing, or they might think she was crazy. She's a character, my mother.

But then, all Catholics are a weird bunch. Especially the Italian ones.

I opened my eyes and read quietly from my Saint Diary.

Dear St. Sebastian:

O Patron Saint of Athletes, please help me not look stupid tomorrow in gym class when we play soccer even though I am not very fast, kick the ball in the wrong direction occasionally, and sometimes forget which team I'm on. And I promise I won't sit down out on the field this time if they make me play defense again and I get bored. Ideally, I'd like to play more like Hilary, our star soccer player (even though she is named after the Patron Saint of Snakebites). But if I can't be as good as Hilary, I'll settle for just not getting picked last. And don't forget about Mrs. Bevalaqua. It would be really great if her arthritis got better so she could walk again. Thank you, St. Sebastian, for your intercession in these matters.

I lit the worn-down pillar candle beneath sexy Sebastian and gave him a longing look, as if I could will him to step out of his frame. It was right about then that my moment alone with the half-naked, holy babe was interrupted.

“Time to get ready for bed, Antonia! It's getting late and you have school tomorrow,” Mom yelled from the kitchen.

“I'm
praying
,” I called back, my voice all “Please don't interrupt my saint time,” aware that the surest way into whatever flexibility my mother could offer was through piety.

“Five more minutes, then!”

I started to close my diary when I noticed that the corner of my St. Anthony mass card was peeling. I smoothed the edge gently, lovingly, as if I were brushing the cheek of Andy Rotellini, the boy I'd been in love with since the summer before ninth grade. A crease was beginning to mark the murky blue sky surrounding Anthony, dark against the gleam of his halo. I dipped my pinkie into the pool of hot wax around the candlewick and placed a tiny drop on the corner of the card, refastening it to the page. Below St. Anthony's image was a pocket made of thick, red linen paper, stuffed with devotions and prayers, some on random scraps of this and that, others scribbled on colorful Post-its. Anthony's page had more devotions than any other saint in my diary.

My Saint Diaries were my most sacred possessions.

“
I'm praying
, Mommy,” said a voice behind me, singsong
and catty, sending a shiver up my spine. Not the scary sort of shiver or even the good kind, but the “blech” kind you felt when you met up with something disgusting. “I'm such a good little holier-than-thou girl,
Mommy
,” the voice went on, its nasal tone like nails against a chalkboard.

“Veronica,” I said, whirling around to face my cousinâwho also starred as the evil nemesis in my life, not to be overly melodramatic or anything, because it is totally true. Veronica is eVil with a capital V. I tucked my Saint Diary behind me, making sure it was hidden.

BOOK: The Possibilities of Sainthood

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